Direct counterpoint to my fic When Yesterday Dies - read that first, probably; it's only 700 words or so.

Also, I'm still doing open requests for any pairing in any fandom, including crossovers :3 don't hesitate to ask (=

Enjoy!

Curiosity is what drags Jim from the opulence of his hotel room to 221B Baker Street; it's what urges him to call Moran, order the snipers to be ready though he knows he's not going to need them. John is predictable, after all; merely human, no sociopathic, reluctant angel.

He's merely a crippled soul, unable to hide the grimaces of pain as Jim knees his legs further apart, deliberately brushing against that phantom injury of his that probably returned the moment he saw Sherlock jump.

Is this what Sherlock used to do to you? he asks, though he knows the answer from the tightness around his fingers, the deliberate relaxation of John's limbs (ever the soldier, ever predictable, and there's something frustrating about this because what could Sherlock find in this wretched, broken man that wasn't sex or intellect or anything more than another average drone?) and somehow he can't stop himself from pushing in slightly harder, from getting lost in annoyance and the inability to understand why him? – from abandoning his plans to force John to orgasm, slowly and torturously.

Because he's coming earlier than he thought he would, walking out of the apartment with a barely faltering till next time, sweetie.

Jim realises halfway through the word time that there wasn't going to be a next time. He was here as a gesture, and the sex might not have been unexpected but it wasn't necessary. It wasn't neat, or at least wasn't messy in the cold, shattering way he's used to.

Just once more, he assures himself.

Jim uses Sherlock's old bedroom in a fit of petulance – partially inspired by the knowledge that Sherlock escaped a genuine plan by Jim to kill him (none of that nonsense with snipers and a rooftop, but what was supposed to be a meticulous, fool-proof plan. A whole town had been burned to ashes, and the only one who'd survived was that goddamned man. It'd been the biggest waste of resources in Jim's career.)

But, and he knows how to be honest with himself, there's something more than simple annoyance with someone who will, inevitably, lose to him.

It's the fifth week; the fifth week and the fifth time (Tuesday evening, as always, a regular routine) Jim finds himself ordering John to strip (and he does so with economical movements, brisk and efficient and almost hiding the slight tremor in his hands.)

The fifth and nothing has changed. Nothing. And while John's stoicism is cute, if dull, it's been eating at Jim in a way he doesn't quite understand, self-honesty or not.

This time, at least, he garners something; a violent tremble in the smaller body beneath him when he pushes John into the mattress. And there's something delicious about the barely-there glint of despair in the other man's eyes when, for the first time, Jim fucks him on his back instead of his stomach, timing the movement of his hand around John's cock so he comes just before Jim does, tightening around Jim in a way that's wonderfully convulsive and uncontrolled.

Broken, Jim thinks, mentally batting away the ridiculous shade of disappointment colouring his thoughts; too fast, far too fast, and just one more week to see if it's true (because if not, Jim's got better things to do than shatter a pawn.)

The next week, Jim strips John himself; and so it's he who uncovers the stab wound (missed any major arteries and muscle groups, indicates medical training; 103 degree angle, self-inflicted; force, high levels of emotional stress; suicidal? No, placement of wound indicates sense of helplessness rather than suicidal tendencies.)

And he should be glad, because this here is final proof that Sherlock has lost; that when he finally manages to destroy enough of Jim's empire to come back home (and Jim doesn't particularly care, because he's sick of Eurasia and thinking seriously of letting Sherlock do his thing and then starting afresh in South America or Australasia), he'll find one of the few things that matters to him permanently and irreversibly damaged.

Jim should be glad –

But he's angry (mine, my toy, mine to break), burning furious with a cold rage that finds him looking up to meet John's eyes steadily; and John's eyes flicker with something that isn't resignation or determination or even despair.

It's different.

So Jim moves slowly, gently; lays John down on his own bed, not Sherlock's (because this time it isn't about Sherlock, and he'll deal with that rather troubling line of thought later) and, for the first time, spends more time touching John's body (tracing the scars on his chest, flicking a tongue over his nipples and forcing involuntary gasps of pleasure-shock from those soft lips) than he does actually fucking him.

He sees the confusion in John's eyes when he smiles and pulls out, dressing himself quickly and leaving as quietly as he comes.

It's surprisingly difficult to admit to himself that he prefers the confusion to the despair.

Later, Jim very deliberately doesn't think about the time that John lies pliant in his arms; not actively participating but passively accepting, mind disconnected from where he is, who he's with. He doesn't think about it because then he's really left with nothing to do other than set off a bomb in Iraq, or commission a train crash in Siberia, and it's really quite wasteful, doing that.

But remembering that – the eerie sensation of being faced with what was, essentially a life-size doll (till Jim turned his fury into ruthlessly and methodically pushing every single button of John's till the man was almost begging) – it makes him angry, even now. At the time, he barely managed to keep his voice steady enough to bite out his last retort – "I see right through you, Johnny m'boy".

John doesn't try it again, and even better, he doesn't return to passive resistance. Instead he hovers, disoriented and confused and responsive.

He thought that John breaking, finally, would release him from whatever he's trapped himself in – this addictive rush of predictability and spontaneity all in one body (is that how John got Sherlock? By just being?)

But when John actually relaxes into his grasp, turns and kisses him with blood and teeth and saliva, messy and unexpected and wonderful, Jim finds himself acknowledging one of a few rare instances where he has been wrong.

John might be broken, but it is beautiful; like he's seeing a soul, casing torn and ripped with a sun's light seeping through the cracks.

Jim's not sure who suggests that they meet more than once a week (because they meet, now, it's not Jim taking what he wants ever since John kissed him and more with a passionate, desperate enthusiasm). Perhaps it's a simultaneous decision.

Either way, Jim isn't complaining. He wants this, and John needs this.

Sherlock's got about seven months left by Jim's estimation. Knowing Sherlock, he'll be done in six.

"Move in with me," Jim suggests on an impulse – impulse, isn't that exciting? He never used to have these before, and he supposes that Sherlock probably didn't either, because the two of them are similar, so similar, at least in the ways it matters (intellect, wit, John).

He doesn't know why he asks, but he does know that it's been two years, nine months and eighteen days since Sherlock vanished. Jim knows that John doesn't give up (no matter what Sherlock said on that rooftop, John will never stop believing in him) but that he's given up on Sherlock being alive.

He knows that John is his, and that he likes to have what's his around him. Not safe, never safe because nothing is safe with Jim, but safe from everything except Jim.

When John nods, says "all right" with capitulation echoing from not just his mouth but his heart, his soul, Jim can't help but lean forwards and kiss him, long and deep.